Tear Drop Diamonds
by Ominous Bliss
Summary: Some time after a mysterious murder, Christine will be forced to make a choice based on loyalty and devotion; but will it be the right one?
1. The Masked Spectre

Chapter One: The Masked Spectre

**Author's Note****: **Obviously, I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Not to say that I wouldn't like to own one. –cough cough- But anyhow, onward. I love reviews—oh, isn't that so ironic? There's a review button at the bottom of the page—and I would appreciate a few. Oh, just a few. Constructive criticism is great, so don't hesitate to list all of the things I've done wrong or could improve on. I hope you enjoy the first chapter. If enough of you have, who knows, I may just write a second. ^_~

...

           Christine gazed longingly at a diamond necklace that lay unavailable to her behind the glass of a Paris shop. Oh, how it glimmered! And yet she knew that she did not have enough money to buy it. Even if she did, what use would it be? Christine did not have fancy enough clothes for it, nor was she extremely beautiful like some of the women of Paris. A glamorous necklace like that one on such a drab, homely-looking girl... No, that necklace was not for her; yet still she memorized the gorgeous tear drop myriad that hung from the round, silver chain.

           Christine sighed sadly. 'Perhaps one day I'll own nice things like jewelry and pretty dresses,' she thought, pulling her wool coat close about her shoulders. The November wind bit at her severely, and seeing that the sun had dipped considerably in the sky so that various hues of purple and orange occupied the normally clear blue canvas, she started for home.

              Her heart was heavy. It had been years since her father's death--What, six, seven perhaps?--though she still thought of him regularly. The two had traveled villages, singing and laughing... At the end of the day, they would have only just enough food between them, yet this did not matter. Christine had a companion; she had a friend. She had a dream.

           She remembered the old stories her father would tell her of the Angel of Music, how such an angel would bless the very fortunate souls with the ability to compose, or perhaps to sing. Of course, Christine had waited for the Angel all of her life, and still he had not come. Surely her father lied to her; surely it was one of the old wives' tales. Or mayhap she simply was not blessed by the Angel, and would never be.

           The streets became more and more empty as she walked, with only a mere passer-by every now and then as the sky darkened until only the moon shone, round and glorious, abandoned by her smaller and more distant sisters. Despite the light provided from above, it was still a dark night, for the lamps upon the street of her home--or rather, a small cottage loaned to her by the only friend she had ever had since her father's death, whose name was Rachelle, and who also was laid to rest in her earthly grave--the lamps upon the street of her home were dull and distant, hardly lighting the path beneath her feet.

           Christine was almost home, though all the same, an eerie chill crept over her body. It was cold; she was now alone; and she could have sworn that someone was watching her, if she had had the time to voice it. Instead, she felt something graze her shoulder. Christine hesitated. At first she did not know what to make of this. It felt just as if the wind had simply brushed past. However, there was no wind tonight. Christine felt her heart leap to her throat and begin beating rapidly. Something was behind her. No doubt it could not be a man--not a mere man! The touch, if that is what you would like to call it, could not have been made by any human, she was quite sure...

              "I am sorry if I startled you," came a voice. Christine spun about lightly, her breathing a little further increased. She would have screamed, yet something stifled it within her throat, and pushed it back down. That something was astonishment, curiosity, and awe, all rivaling to take control of her soul simultaneously. The voice was so beautiful... A man's voice... However, she could not tell if this spectre was truly a man or not, for upon the whole of his face was a mask so black that she had trouble distinguishing it from the rest of his garments. They were nice clothes, undoubtedly expensive, and too, like the mask, were an obsidian colour, although not quite so dark... Not quite so ominous... 

           "I simply saw you passing by. Forgive me for easing my curiosity, Christine—what reason have you to be away from home in this hour of night? It is no place for such a healthy youth as yourself to be, out on the streets of a shadowed Paris."

           Christine looked deep at the mask where two holes should have been cut for eyes. However, all was so dark... His clothing, the mask, the lamps, even nature itself... She could see no eyes belonging to a human, and could not even tell if there were places for them to show through, if they were there. Yet after hearing the stranger's voice a second time, this factor no longer seemed to bother her. In fact, she was so intent on listening, that she did not even catch him speak her name. She heard only the melody of his tone, and how his words, flawless, strung together in such harmony. If only he would speak again!

           The masked man watched her for a moment. Christine was not sure how she knew he was watching, though she knew. She felt his gaze boring past her awkward appearance, searching deep within her for something she could not name, something she did not even know existed, perhaps. She heard herself reply to him, although felt as if she had been plunged into some dream—everything was vague to her, almost controlled by some other, separate entity altogether.

           "I was walking home. I live not far, you see. In fact, I only came into town to speak with the keepers of a theatre; I'm trying to get some role in an opera. I used to sing as a child, and I'm hoping that I can make a living by singing once again, if they will accept me."

           "I know."

           Somehow, Christine sensed that she should have been unnerved by his answer, yet the spectre's soft, unhurried demeanor convinced her that this was not so. No, of course it was not so! She did not question how he 'knew,' or even why she had told him about her evening. She simply looked at him, that hard mask that contained what she imagined to be a handsome, comprehensive face, and his gloved hands folded about one another atop what appeared to be a cane of some sort.

           He spoke again.

           "You must return home, Christine. It would be such a _tragedy_ should anything happen to you this night." His voice floated upon the air softly, the epitome of persuasiveness in all its cunning glory. And in this, Christine was compelled to turn and flee that very moment, although found that she could not.

           Dipping her head like a scolded child, Christine shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them once more, she had been filled with a desperate urge to know his name. She must know it! She had to inquire for it! She opened her mouth and looked back up, although before she had time to speak, she again was rendered speechless. 

           The masked spectre was no longer there.

...

           Christine groaned sleepily, turning over beneath the comforter of her small mattress. She felt sunlight beat against her eyelids, therefore she opened them, and looked about the plain, almost completely unadorned room. Her body was wrought with weariness; why did she tire so? Normally she woke early, refreshed, and in a fairly good mood. Today, however, was different. There was something strange about today... 

           It was then that she recalled a man in black, who spoke to her in a dim, lonely street. It was so bizarre! 'It must have been a dream,' she thought, a small degree of uneasiness rising within her. 'Yes...all of it a dream.' Christine lay there upon her back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it all to return. It did not, and after a short span of time she got out of bed and readied for the day.

           For most of the morning the dream was put out of her mind. She would have no truck with it. It was unimportant. Instead, she waited eagerly for word from the Paris Opera House; if all went well, Madame Giry—a woman she had met the day before, who she regarded quite highly—would be dropping by at noon with news that she had earned a place in _Il Muto. _It did not even have to be a very charming role; just something she could sing, something from which she could gradually earn a main lead one day.

           The shock came somewhere around eleven o' clock. Christine turned on the radio, having nothing better to do, as the house was clean and lunch was made so that it would be ready upon Madame Giry's arrival. 

           "Last night—some time around half past nine o' clock—a body was found by a member of the Parisian police department on Rue Vignon, only a few streets away from the Paris Opera House. The man seems to have been stabbed once, although no evidence of the aggressor has been found. The identity of the man..."

           "Oh, oh my God," Christine gasped, clutching the counter upon which the radio sat with one hand, trying to steady herself. Blackness was swimming in her mind. Eventually, after much gasping and pleading, Christine found that she was stable again, although quite clammy and with sweaty palms. "I was on Rue Vignon last night," she mumbled in a half-whisper, "and around nine o' clock, at that... Oh, my God! My God... So he was not a dream... He warned me... Or did he...? Is he real...? My God... My God..."

           Christine heard no more of the radio—perhaps it was that she did not _want_ to hear—and with a trembling hand turned it off, staggering to the kitchen table and slumping into one of the three wooden chairs. She coughed, gasped again, and regained her breath, still slightly shaken. So there had been a murder on Rue Vignon; the man in her dream—if it was a dream—had warned her to go home. 

           "You must return home, Christine. It would be a _tragedy_ should anything happen to you this night. ..." 

           Christine did not notice that she was crying until a tear rolled off of her cheek, spilling onto one of her hands with a cold splash that made her start. Whether she might have been a random victim of the murderer, or if she was really being stalked by some insane psychopath, she knew that she was now a part of the case. And the masked man... How did he know beforehand of the crime? Was he a part of it? By now, it had worked into her mind that he had really stood before her and uttered that warning, "you must return home," on Rue Vignon. He must have. He was there. _He was not a dream._

           Paranoia had settled over Christine, therefore when she heard the boisterous knock at the main door, she leaped to her feet, shuddering even more so than before. It did not occur to her that it could be anyone save the murderer or the masked man, and she did not wish to see either of them. Plain and poor though her life was, it was never disrupted nor unruly; she wished it to remain that way.

           "Christine? Christine Daae? Goodness, girl, open up! I'm not going to wait all day, you know."

           Both relief and panic took the place of Christine's paranoia. So it was Madame Giry! Thanks to the heavens above that it was not anyone from the police department, or possibly worse... However, this reaction was also countered with anxiety that Madame Giry would sense something was wrong. It was obvious that Christine did not look at all normal. Her usually bright cheeks were now utterly pale, and her eyes glittered with tears, some of them clinging to her long lashes. 

           'Oh, I have to let her in,' she thought. 'I can't simply let this go by! If I have any luck at all, then after today, I'll never hear about any of it again, and I can go on and be part of the Opera or maybe some other theatre and I can live happily and in peace...'

           Christine stood, pushed in her chair, and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her off-white sweater. They still shone irregularly, although this could easily be excused with, "Oh, Madame, I'm just so terribly excited, and at the same time so worried!" As for her discolourment, well, perhaps Madame wouldn't notice. They had only met once, after all. 

           By the time she reached the door, Christine appeared almost entirely fine, and grinned as much as she could bear upon seeing the plump face of Madame Giry. 

           "Madame! Oh, I have so looked forward to this...!"

           "Yes, yes, I know. The others have already talked everything over, my dear, although I'll hesitate to tell you right away. Speaking of telling, have you heard? It was on the radio all this morning; knowing that you didn't live too far, I was slightly worried for you. Are you alright?"

           Christine felt fear bubbling within her soul. She showed in Madame as she spoke, and shut the door, swallowing a knot in her throat before replying, "Yes—yes, I'm fine." Of course she had heard. Of course she knew; she had known before anyone else! Everyone save the masked man, perhaps... 

           "Well, I just wanted to be sure. After all, it was only eight thirty that you left Palais, and I was a tad concerned."

           Christine said nothing. Madame Giry walked with her to the kitchen where Christine fetched the tray upon which two cups of tea and cookies were placed, setting it on the kitchen table before her guest. She then sat down, although still could find nothing to say, and kept her eyes adverted away from Madame.

           Apparently, the situation was awkward, and Madame Giry could do no more than find something else about which to speak. This was just as well, because Christine knew that she would have been unable to find words to say. Sure, she might have come up with something, yet it was easier for it to be as it was.

           "Oh! Also, I am dreadfully surprised that it should be Philippe de Chagny who should be murdered. Didn't that just shock you so? My hand flew to my mouth, I dare say, because it came as such a surprise. Imagine that. Now, who would want to do away with monsieur Chagny?"

           "Philippe? Oh, no, Madame—surely not!" Christine's voice was quiet, although partially stunned. The Count? Murdered? For some reason, an image of the masked spectre came back to her. Had he done this? If so, was she the only person who knew? Of course, she was not even entirely sure that the spectre was human at all... So if this was the case, what was truly going on? Christine shuddered, the confusion terribly overwhelming. She might have cried again were not Madame Giry sitting before her.

           "Yes, my dear, it is so! Oh, now, don't quiver like that. I do not think you knew him personally. Yes, everyone _knows_ him, but I think only one person has taken it terribly hard. That would be Raoul, the viscount. The poor dear! I saw him just this morning at Palais, and he was sobbing."

           Christine looked up at Madame Giry, and the atmosphere between them became tense and melancholy. Neither of them dared venture so far as to say a word. In fact, the two felt the whole subject should be dropped, and for a long moment they remained silent as before.

           "By the way, darling," Madame said gravely, "the others have debated and decided. You have earned a place in next month's performance of Il Muto."

...

**Author's Note II****: **By the way, could any of you kind people tell me exactly what role Christine had in Il Muto? I'm not sure of the Leroux book or the Webber musical mentioned that little fact at all, but I would like to know just for authenticity. Thanks ahead of time if you're willing to answer my question; I'll adore you for so long as I shall write. Or at least so long as I'm writing this fanfiction. 

~Miranda.


	2. An Ethereal Vow

Chapter Two: An Ethereal Vow

**Author's Note****: **I own the Phantom of the Opera and all of its characters and its entire plotline and every little detail—no, just kidding. Of course I don't. Thanks to all of you who reviewed to my previous chapter. I was really expecting more harsh critiquing than that, truth be told. I'm glad you all enjoyed it! Also, Angelic Lawyer, to answer your question: I'm really not sure if radios existed then or not. Good point. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. However, I'd hate to have to go back an edit seeing as it would change a bit of the plotline (and I'm lazy), so I'll just have to let it slide this time. And one more thing; thanks to those of you who helped me figure out what Christine and Carlotta sang in Il Muto. Or rather, what they played. Now my phanphiction shall be not only more authentic, but more entertaining as well. ^_~

...

           Even after all that had happened to Christine, not one day was as peculiar as her first at Palais Garnier. She was almost immediately shown her dressing room, where she spent most of the morning, and where several people stopped by to see her. The first of these, of course, was Madame Giry; then Christine was greeted by the newly appointed managers, Monsieurs Andre and Firmin. Even several of the small ballet girls managed to sheepishly say 'hello' on their way to wherever their spry little legs were taking them.

           However, it was when Carlotta entered the room that her day truly began.

...

           "Yes, come in."

           Christine heard the sound of something sweeping across the rugged carpet as a rather tall, black-haired woman stepped into the room, a solid 'click' filling the air as she shut the door. Her eyes were a hard green, shining with a malevolent light that Christine could not entirely comprehend, for contradicting this contempt was a rather charming smile that could win over anyone—at least, anyone as naive as Christine.

           "I heard there was a new duckling," she said. Christine could sense arrogance under the tone, almost as if this woman was really implying, 'You're the duckling, little girl, but remember that _I'm_ the swan.' This set a destined enmity between them. If it was not there at that particular moment, Christine thought, then it would surely develop in no time at all. However, not wanting to be rude herself, she put on the largest smile she could manage and replied in an innocent voice:

           "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you. Won't you sit down? I haven't even heard your name; I don't think we've met before. I'm Christine."

           "Oh, it's a splendid pleasure to meet you....Christine. I'm sure someone's told you about me already. I'm Carlotta. I'll be singing in Il Muto with you, so I decided I should get to know another of my fellow cast-members."

           With this, Carlotta sat down upon a small bed-like couch that lay resting against the opposite wall of the dressing room, crossing her legs. Christine could not help but notice that she wore the finest of clothes, her current theme being red. Apparently, Carlotta knew that she, like everyone else in the theatre, noticed, and it made her rather perturbed. Is that all she wanted? To flaunt in front of the 'new duckling'?

           "Well," Christine mumbled, "I don't think I'll be singing, exactly... It's more of a silent part, you see. But yes, I'll be on the stage."

           "Oh? Well, I'm sorry. Perhaps it is that they simply haven't heard your voice at its full potential yet. Or—"

           Christine arched a brow. "Or?"

           "Or, how about we never mind that subject, hmm?"

           "Yes... I think that would be best."

           Carlotta grinned up at her, almost triumphantly, and shifted her skirts so that they rested more fashionably. Or at least, that's what it seemed to Christine, who turned to look away. She peered deep into her three-sectioned mirror, still half-facing Carlotta, and began to stroke her silky blonde hair with a brush. 'At least I have prettier hair,' she thought, ashamed of her rising jealousy.

           "So, Christine. Have they told you about—oh, I just _shudder_ when I even think the name, let alone speak it—the _Opera Ghost_?"

           For some reason, a shiver ran down Christine's spine, much like the eerie chills that overtook her the night she came across the masked spectre. Opera Ghost... That seemed a fitting name for him. All too fitting, really... The way he was so smartly dressed, his beautiful voice, and that apparition-like way he saw right through her, even—

           "They say they've seen him. Anew, at that, roaming the halls once more. Most of us, of course, haven't even had notice of him since the death of Joseph Bucquet, but Andre claims that he's asking for Box Five again."

           Christine snapped up her head, aware that Carlotta was speaking. 

           "Death...?"

           "Yes! The Opera Ghost isn't new to killing men. He's killed more here. I've only seen Joseph die—not that I saw it happen with my own two eyes, but I was here when the first reports of him came—and I'm definite that he—the Ghost—has got more people stored down in his lair underneath the Opera House."

           It might have been that Carlotta was lying simply to scare Christine. Even the few minutes that Christine had spent with her already was enough to make this possibility liable. Her personality was dominating, sly, eager to make known her alpha-ship over the lesser in the Palais hierarchy. And, quite obviously, Christine was one of the lesser. 

           Nevertheless, something about the situation in which she found herself made her believe. Death. Ghost. The foreboding instinct dwelled within her that the spectre and the Ghost were one and the same man—and that could only mean one thing... The masked one that had beckoned her to go that night must have been the murderer! There must have been a reason for Philippe's death, then, but what was it? And why had she been told to go home? It was still so puzzling, so shocking. And to think, he could really be here, wandering the halls of Palais Garnier! 

           "Oh, my goodness..."

           "Yes, I know. Isn't it just awful? And no one's been able to get close enough to him to attempt vengeance for those he's murdered. In fact, the bravest of men wouldn't dare it even if this was untrue. Do you have any idea why?"

           Christine looked up, her face becoming more pale with the minute. 'I must control myself lest I start to cry again... But I feel so stunned that I'm not sure I would, even if I were alone...' Christine tried to speak and could not find her voice. Instead, she shook her head lightly, laying the brush—which she had absent-mindedly dropped into her lap—on the top of her table. All attention was now utterly focused upon Carlotta. The thought did not even cross her mind that this was what the diva wanted. However, the information she possessed was far more important than Christine's pride, so it was not of much matter.

           "He yields a whip perfectly. They say it's made of cat-gut, and apparently it works quite well, because that's how Monsieur Joseph was killed: hung. Yes, they found him hanged. I'm sure Joseph didn't see what was coming.

           "Of course, you just don't _see_ the Opera Ghost. In fact, he could be listening to us right now... Watching us, even! But these, terrifying as they are, aren't the reason. People fear him because of what lay beneath his mask. Hideous, they say, like a Death's Head, but far, far worse. I have never seen him, of course, because all who _have_ seen are thought to have died then and there, whether by the Ghost's hand, or his face..."

           Mask. That was it; that was all Christine needed to confirm it. She had met the Opera Ghost. Yes, everything matched Carlotta's description. And what now? What if he found her here? What would she do if she ran into him? He had committed a murder, she was sure of it, and who was to say he would not slay her as well? Apparently he was all-knowing, all-seeing... This beast could kill her easily if she thought in the least that he suspected her knowledge of Philippe's death. And what of these others? Oh, he was a madman! What could she do...? Palais Garnier was her only hope left for living the life she had always longed for. She could not leave it, but it seemed she had no choice...

           "I see," Christine mumbled, her voice weak and shaken. She could feel the intense stare of Carlotta, although said nothing beyond this. She was incapable of it. In fact, she considered herself quite lucky that she had managed to say anything at all.

           "Well, I must excuse myself. I must prepare. Leading roles are so terribly hard to sing, but they say that I can make it work. I must go practice." Carlotta giggled devilishly, stood, and rustled her skirts—making a terrible noise—as she walked to the door. Before leaving, she looked back at Christine, who gazed at the far wall where Carlotta had been sitting, deep in thought.

           "Good luck, Page Boy. Let us hope neither of us sing too terribly bad on stage! It would be hopping terrible!"

           Christine turned her head, slightly taken aback. How did Carlotta know her place in Il Muto? She had said nothing... Nothing save that it was a silent part... Perhaps she was told, or perhaps she had guessed. The remark hurt her regardless, however, and she had mind to say something, but when she opened her mouth, Carlotta had quickly slammed the door and was gone. Christine could still hear her laughing softly to herself as she walked, and listened as the sound faded slowly away...

           "As if my current predicament isn't bad enough," she whispered, letting her head fall into her hands, streams of hair concealing her tortured face. She would have given anything right then to be back home, leaning on the shoulder of Rachelle and weeping, telling someone she loved her problems. Oh, why did Rachelle have to die? Why? Oh, why did everything she loved have to die? Her father, then her friend, then her dreams, and finally  her security. All of it was dead. Everything. 

           Death.

           That seemed to be the one word she could not escape. It was because of death that she was alone. And furthermore, it was because of death that all else was bent on looking down on her, against her. It seemed that the only friendly soul she knew now was Madame Giry, although she knew her for scarcely a few days, and their bond was a light one that could easily be broken. 

           Why was life so unfair? She could think of no reason why God had to punish her so. She had been a good girl all of her life, obeyed and loved her father, spoke respectfully to her elders, and when she grew, she thought she had made a decent life out of the ruins that were behind her. Rachelle provided her with a home that she cleaned and a friend that she cherished. But no. Death. Death took that away. All of a sudden, just like her father, Rachelle was gone. 

           "Oh, if only I was never born..."

           _Surely you don't think that, my dear._

Christine looked up. Had it been her imagination? Carlotta was gone. But she was certain she had heard someone say something. She slowly stood, clutching her chest with one hand. No, she was simply imagining things. That was all. She had simply gotten carried away with the thought of death and murder and silent phantoms. Christine felt her head fall and a sigh escape her lips, although she knew, once more, the melting of reality from around her. Nothing remained save a giddy feeling in her mind. 

           "What's the matter, Christine? You must not take young Carlotta's words to heart; those were words moulded with jealousy and born with hate. Of course, they will end in demise. But tell me. Why does it trouble you?"

           That voice... It was so familiar, and yet Christine could not attach a face to it. She struggled with this for a few seconds, and then sought to find the voice's master. When she looked once more about the room, she saw no one. No one at all.

           "Oh, I'm sick of it," she mumbled half-heartedly. 

           "Oh, yes. Sick of being misled, deceived, lost, alone..."

           Christine did not want to agree with the voice's words, although found that this was impossible. And what's more, it was equally impossible to deny its presence. She sat back down, silent, trying to comprehend what was taking place. Perhaps this, too, was unfeasible, for she was unable to come up with a reasonable explanation. Her mind seemed to be occupied by some other person, as if it was no longer her own—it was hazy, and she could not extract information from her memory.

           "Who are you?" she asked softly. If she could not remember who the voice belonged to—and the answer to this question irked her something awful—then she would ask. Surely the voice would tell her. It just seemed so kind, so ready to listen and understand, eager to tend to her every whim.

           Silence.

           Again Christine mustered up the strength to speak, to ask. 

           "Who are you...?"

           There came a pause that might have sickened her. However, her conscience was blurred, and she could sense very little, therefore she only waited. The voice did not come for some time, although when it did, she felt her heart jump.

           "I am the Angel of Music, Christine."

           Immediately her mind was freed from the imprisonment that so slowed it. Perhaps it was the shock of hearing such words. The Angel of Music? Was this true? The voice belonged to no human—it was so soft... Could she possibly say that it was _not_ the Angel she had waited for all of her life? Then the image of the Opera Ghost filled her thoughts, and she froze, her eyes growing wide. 

           "Now, my dear... You look stark with fright. Do you not believe me...? Can you not believe your Angel? Listen to my voice, Christine... Come, hearken! Do you not hear the sincerity? If you do not wish for my presence still, however, I will go... But please, do not forsake me, Christine. Do not forsake your Angel of Music...!"

           Oh, how he begged! How sad he sounded! The agony in his tone was too much to bear. What cold-blooded killer could possibly sound so heartbroken? Yes, it must be her Angel of Music! He had come to her, at last! Oh, the joy she experienced! The wonder! The Angel of Music her father had sent from heaven above... No, she could not send him away. Finally he had come! She was sure of it. Christine did not think even once, after she had made up her mind, that it could possibly be the Opera Ghost. This was ruled out. The voice belonged to her Angel of Music.

           "Angel! Oh, my Angel! No, do not go! I've longed to see you for so long... Nay, I can't let you go back! Stay with me. Where are you? Why will you not stand before me, that I may see you?"

           "Not yet, Christine. If you will only be patient with me, then in time I will show myself to you. But not yet."

           "Why?" She exclaimed. Her euphoria exceeded reason, and it seemed unfair, unjust that her Angel should still remain unseen. She had a right to look upon him! Oh, how she would love that moment! Her Angel of Music, at last! 

           "Please, Christine. Am I not worth waiting for?"

           Christine felt shame rise above the joy that she had briefly felt. He was right. She had become far too excited. Oh! Why had she not thought to be more careful? How close she might have come to losing her Angel! This thought made her furious with herself, and partially scared. 

           In a timid voice, she said, "Yes, Angel. Of course you're worth waiting for; I'm sorry. Please forgive me... Don't go..." 

           "Of course I won't go, my darling. Of course I won't go... I will be with you always! And I shall give you lessons to make your voice melodious and the envy of all! I'll never leave you, Christine..."

           A smile tugged at Christine's lips. Everything would be alright. She had a friend now, she had a haven to run to, someone to speak with, and lessons from an angel. Also, a Ghost could not come near an angel, and so she was safe. He said he would never leave her... Never! How blissful, to know that she would never again be alone, and that she would be forever watched over by her angel. While she trusted in his word, she still inquired one more thing of the Angel of Music.__

           "Do you swear that you will never leave me, my Angel? Do you promise?"

           If Christine could have seen her Angel at that time, she would have seen a smile, composed half of ardor and half of victory. 

           "Yes, my love—of course. I promise."


End file.
